


Pinball Wizard

by ironicconcoctions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist!Dean, Cookie Cutter!Castiel, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, asshole!Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:49:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicconcoctions/pseuds/ironicconcoctions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Growing up in a town with no escape and the lingering afterthought that everyone knows what happened to you starts to melt your brain from the inside out. Makes you a tad bit nutty."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ᛟᚾᛖ

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are mine.

It was the summer of 1995 in the town of Langley, Illinois. The weather was hot and the corn and bean crops lining the blacktop created an uncomfortable thick layer of humidity that loomed over the community like a storm cloud preparing to combust. Two boys sat idly on their front step, the older of the brothers wiping away a film of gravel dust and sweat from his forehead while observing his neighbor mow their dead lawn. It was humorous to watch these people try to maintain the ugly and unruly prairie grass that somehow landed itself in the middle of nowhere. 

Langley wasn’t even on the map. The state refused to fund their schools so they could update their system, more or less seeing the faction a liability, a nuisance, to their collapsing economy as-is. They needed to waste their money on updating the capital building in downtown Springfield, get some more meaningless copper encrusted sculptures to enhance the ugly, industrialized cityscape. 

The younger boy, maybe fourteen or so, made his way off his porch steps and walked over to the sidewalk - or what was left of it. The concrete had been poured an odd twenty-five years or so ago, since then it had cracked and quackgrass had sprouted it’s way and made its home in the middle of each square. The boy scraped his shoe over a few of them, watching a murky cloud of pollen fly idly in the air around the seed pods at the top of the plant. His brown hair just passed his ears, sticking to his neck with sweat. He waved at his brother, a heap of gray cotton-and-polyester curled in on itself hovering at the end of their walkway. 

“Dean. Let’s go get ice cream. I’m gonna get heat stroke.” 

The older boy - Dean, stumbled over his own feet and almost fell down the steps before quickly recovering himself. His long blonde hair hung through his hoodie’s opening, brushing his shoulders and curling sweetly at the ends, covering high cheekbones - tanned and speckled with brown sugar freckles. The younger boy slapped Dean on the back and they made their way to the deli down the road.

~

The deli, ‘Burpee’s Ice and Milk Treat’s’, specifically, was a small and square shack on the side of the main road that led out of Langley, a road hitting the nearest city, seventy-miles west of the black water pond in the middle of the square. It had green siding and ugly brown trim around the window and the back door. You couldn’t get inside unless you had the key - obviously. It was an independent business, run by the Burpee’s; Ellen and Jo. They were not from Langley - no, they had sprouted their modern business amongst the old-timey town when they had stopped through during a road trip to NYU. They never left, charmed to death by the broken down buildings and reclusive people.

Dean and his younger brother stood behind a group of fifteen of so people, teenagers and children, all wearing t-shirts and shorts, sticky and smelly. Dean lean't over to his brother, laying a quivering hand on his broad shoulder. “I don’t think I can do this, Sammy,” he whispered gruffly, the pupils of his wide green eyes shaking in distress. His brother, Sammy, grabbed his square-fingered hand off his shoulder and clutched it tightly in his own. “Sam…” 

“Dean, it’s fine. Ten minutes, ten minutes and we’ll go home,” Sam pleaded. He squeezed Dean’s hand, a gesture of comfort. “I’ll hold your hand?” 

Dean didn’t reply but didn’t let go. The people in front of him kept glancing nervously at him and his brother, scooting closer to the vendors like they would protect them from the aloof teenager and his poindexter of a brother. Dean could feel them whispering about him, he could feel the heated stares on his back stinging his tan skin through his excessive layers, but he stayed for Sam, the warm reminder that his brother was with him gripped his right hand tightly.

Soon Sam and Dean reached the front of the line. Ellen leaned halfway out of the serving window, her tan crinkly forearm resting on the jagged looking edge of the white plastic ice machine on the inside of the small deli. Dean always thought she looked like a worn warrior, some kind of ancient goddess that had a leather rough exterior but a warm heart of bronze honey. He kept that to himself, though. 

“One bubblegum flavored ice - a medium, and wait, Dean, what do you want?” Sam turned his head to his brother, smiling slightly. Dean shook his head, mumbling to himself. “Well, that’s all I guess…” the brown haired boy said hesitantly, throwing a questioning look at his brother once again. Ellen looked at Dean with wary eyes, her daughter looming protectively a few feet behind her. 

“One regular bubble ice, and one small watermelon pop, Jo.” Ellen’s voice rang low in Dean’s ears. He was mortified. All he ever did was mess up. He hadn’t even said anything and he messed up. He was just like the lonely red bugs that crawled under someone’s shoes, unaware of their looming death beneath the sole of a rubber shoe. Why did he even try? What was he doing out here he should have just stayed home what a fucking idiot what a fucking idiot he - 

“Dean!” 

Dean removed his hands from his head quickly. He hadn’t realized he had been wacking his brains out. Everyone behind him looked extremely startled, a few leaning away and mumbling. One girl was taking pictures of him with her disposable camera, laughing, mocking. Sam wrapped his arms around his brother and started to walk him away from the shop, Ellen holding the phone in her hand, obviously ready to call the police if needed. Dean just stared at the pavement, watching his converse clad shoes drag over the weeds and dirt. They made a pretty star pattern in the dust if he stepped down particularly hard. Sam was talking to him but he was too busy thinking about how he could maybe cut some dandelions out of the yard when he got home to stew them, and eventually can them for the winter, since he wouldn't be leaving the house anytime soon.

“Dean -” Sam shook his brother hard, snapping him out of his daydream. Why did he look so angry? The willow tree behind him swung it's soft branches through the hot breeze, casting monster like shadows over Sam's young face. “Are you even listening to me?”

Dean pointed at the tree, “Do you think I could weave a basket with it's branches? I need something new to hold my paint brushes and...” Sam looked sad, his long arms hanging loose by his sides, small pinprick moles having a small stay for the summer on his browned skin. “Help me cut them. Use those long monkey fingers for something good.” Dean sent his brother an imploring stare. Sam shook his head no, hazel eyes sad.

“Dean, lets...just go home,” he grabbed his brother’s arm, pulling him forward. “The tree will still be here tomorrow, okay?”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise.”


	2. ᛏᚹᛟ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is coming.

This had to be one of the hottest summers yet, Gabriel thought. The bright light of a sunbeam stretched itself past the glass of his bedroom picture window, casting a golden streak across his face. He could hear the slow creak of his siblings walking around their old house, floorboards sinking under barely any weight, needing an excuse to collapse like a dog after playing catch for hours at the park, tongue lolling out the side of its mouth, a happy aura coating his overexerted body. A small symphony of notes made itself up the stairs, swing dancing their way over his spine and into his ears. His brother was playing the piano.

Gabriel rushed out of his room, almost slipping on a wool sock just outside his bedroom door. His big feet clunked down the steps, soft leather boots occasionally gripping the wood. When he made it into the living room, he could see his youngest siblings all gathered in the kitchen - Castiel alone, bent over the piano like a withering tree, hands moving with the speed of the passing train two towns over, the fallen leaves from the trees next to the railroad track, rising in the air, twisting and spinning into aerial art, resembling that of the notes falling from the piano’s ivory keys. 

“Gabriel -” his sister Hael scolded, “don’t even try to stop me, he knows it’s wrong!” her fingers hovered over the keypad of her cellphone, hesitant to dial a number they both knew would cause trouble. His mouth twitched with anger. He couldn’t even believe...

He quickly moved, reaching to grab the back of Castiel’s blue button down shirt, his hand twisting in the cotton, a practiced move, like helicopter seeds memorized journey from tree to ground. Gabriel wrenched his brother from the piano’s seat, pivoting him around to face him, hands gripping his shoulders with blatant anger, nails embedding themselves into Castiel’s upper forearms. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Dark blue eyes bore into summer gold. The low droop in the corners, the deep bags hanging underneath like a body after a fresh lynching hung from its rope, made Gabriel let go of his brother.

“He’s already here, Gabriel. I can feel it. It’s no use in acting like we all haven’t been feeling His presence these past few days.” Castiel raised his dark eyebrows, shrugging. 

He straightened his back, his muscular and tall form suspended over Gabriel like a God. Just like Michael had, once. His younger brother brushed past him and walked through the kitchen, their siblings pressing themselves against the walls like he was a plague - not that it wasn’t obvious how he carried himself now, what side he stood on. Castiel was a traitor to the family, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back after this time. 

+

The garden was like an old friend, the fruits and flowers brightening his already dreary day, the long stems waving in the wind like a kind greeting. Castiel felt more at home here in the wild patch of green at the edge of his yard, than in the grey home he inhabited atop the hill. He moved some of the leaves out the way, holding them back momentarily so he could sit himself down between the red tomatoes. He watched the clouds for awhile, creating stories from their fluffy masses, something to preoccupy his time while he had a chance to relax. The small stream nearby gurgled happily, mixing nicely with the chirping crickets and humming beetles. He knew when his father got home, there would be hell. 

They were not allowed to play the piano during the summer months, that had been made clear from the day they finally bought it. That's why a long and thick blanket of white silk covered the behemoth of an instrument for 4 months of the year. Music was something to relish in a time of less fortune, when they couldn't play in the yard alongside yellow dandelions and the farm cats from across the road. When it was hot, the music brought bad things. But the bad things had come early this year. There was no point in hiding like his cowardly family, Castiel thought. Why evade the inevitable? 'He' had come to collect someone, and his whole family knew it was Castiel. The telltale signs had already started to blossom across his body.

He had begun to limber up. Normally a lanky kid resembling that of a bendable twig, damp in its natural cartilage from rain, he now was a strong mass of muscle, his cotton shirts training like the thermometer trying to keep up with the temperature change on bad days - against his chest. His hair, normally chocolate brown, slowly becoming thicker and wavier, darkening at the roots and curling around his ears. And finally, his eyes. He had always had abnormally blue eyes, a trait common in his family line, but they had acquired a black ring around the iris, blending harsh storm gray with the cerulean blue. 

Castiel was becoming something he never anticipated - a host for power. A vessel for something unknown. The being - He - hadn't taken anyone since Michael, and they all recognized the changes.

He had been in the garden for many hours, legs cramped and slightly damp from the muddy ground of turned soil underneath him. Castiel went to push himself up, when he noticed somebody across from him, down more towards the stream.

A man. In a gray sweatsuit.

Stripping his sweatshirt off, and jumping into the shallow water.


End file.
